When I was very little we went to church every Sunday. I wore my pink dress and carried my wicker pocketbook full of little toys to keep me occupied during the service. The Church of the Wildwood was a tiny Methodist congregation on a dirt road in a tiny town in Vermont. Reverend Marceau – dressed in blue jeans, a plaid shirt and cowboy boots – led us in song while strumming his guitar. He was gentle and kind, and it seemed the churchgoers followed suit.

When I was about five, we abruptly stopped going to church. My father announced there was no god, and from that point I was raised atheist. Any mention of God was met with rage – if there was a god, tragedies wouldn’t strike. I cannot know for sure, but upon reflection I suspect that his anger at the idea of God stemmed from the death of his mother, lost to cancer.

Dad could try to raise me atheist, but some of the ideas from church had already been planted in my head. I believed in an all-powerful God in charge of all things, and that we were all put on earth for a purpose. In my little mind and with no one to talk to about it, I looked around at my ugly life – full of violence, abuse and pain – and determined that God put me with my family because he hated my guts and wanted me to suffer.

If I could discover my purpose and complete my task, I could die and maybe go to heaven. Maybe my purpose was to hold the door open for a woman carrying her groceries, give directions to a lost sightseer, or share my lunch money with one of the less fortunate students at school. I kept trying to do nice things, hoping I’d achieve my task and be relieved of hell on earth.

Years later, when I went to rehab and got into 12-step recovery, I was utterly lost with Step Three: Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God, as we understood Him. The counselors insisted God was some kind of benevolent being, but I knew he hated me, and the idea of turning to such an entity was terrifying. I’d rejected Christianity, as multiple tragedies and atheist speak had shaded my view of things. God seemed evil.

In treatment we had a couple hours of school every day. I resented this – I’d just graduated high school – but the state insisted all residents of adolescent facilities have study time even in the summer. The teacher met with my team and determined that I would study eastern philosophy. I was presented with material on Buddhism, Hinduism, and even the I Ching. I began to read of different takes on divine thought.

When I left treatment, my mind was just barely opening to the idea of a loving Higher Power, but I still clung to the idea that God himself hated my guts. My 12-Step sponsor suggested I find a new God. What a strange concept! I very slowly started to believe in something I called HP – this sounded hip, like a cool friend – and was separate from that hateful God.

Time has changed the way I think. Somewhere along the line I came to believe that there is some kind of loving energy in the Universe, that loves me and loves you too. I’m not sure what to call it. Sometimes I shorten it to God. I also no longer believe God is all-powerful and in charge of all things. Not all things are God-made. Many are man-made, and God cries at some of what we do to each other.

I still don’t consider myself Christian, although I was baptized Methodist all those years ago, and study the Bible today. I don’t consider myself a Buddhist, although meditation is an important part of my daily routine and mindfulness is central to my healing journey. I draw on many sources, and am quick to see where many religions have so much in common. I am not religious, but I deeply believe I am not alone.

Whatever you believe in – or don’t – is ok. But for me, spirituality is as central to my ongoing recovery as therapy. At the juncture where therapy and spirituality meet, healing happens. Whatever that energy might be – the Universe, HP, or God – it works its love on my heart, if I remain open. There is incredible comfort in that divine love. I think Reverend Marceau would approve.